


Reuniting the Pack

by larriestylinson



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family Feels, Family Reunions, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-18 18:02:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 5,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7325113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larriestylinson/pseuds/larriestylinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark wants nothing more than to reunite her family. Slowly but surely, her pack comes home to Winterfell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arya I

The last thing she’d known was darkness.  
The first thing she felt was heat.  
This didn’t feel like the summer of Braavos or the warm winds of Pentos. This was… different. The girl formerly known as Arya Stark opened her eyes to see where she was. In the dim light, all she saw was four stone walls and what appeared to be a thick locked door. With a dawning horror, Arya realized exactly where she was.   
A prison cell.  
She fumbled with her shaking hands for her Needle. Instead, she found what was presumably a chamber pot and a thin rag that she guessed was supposed to be a blanket. Arya sat back on her haunches in defeat, scanning the room for any improvised weapons or escape routes.  
Nothing.  
A sudden rap on the door made her jump, but she quickly tiptoed up to it, ready to make her presence known.


	2. Sansa I

Sansa Stark sucked in a breath as her handmaiden laced up her dress, effectively cutting off her air supply.  
“Gods be good,” she laughed, “It is a wonder that I have not yet swooned while wearing this gown!”  
Her handmaiden smiled.   
“Swooning whilst wearing a dress from King’s Landing is considered a compliment, m’lady.”  
Her other handmaiden rushed in breathlessly.  
“Lady Stark, you have a visitor from the Queensguard.” Sansa’s grin dropped.  
“Send him in.” she instructed, dismissing them with a flick of her hand.  
Ser Trevyr Shield appeared in the door way with a bow.  
“Your Grace, we apprehended a Faceless Man with a prisoner at the Wall and brought him here. Do you wish to hold court with him?”   
Sansa tensed.  
“Yes, thank you Ser Trevyr. What of his prisoner?”  
The rugged man shrugged.  
“We think he abducted a young Braavosi boy and forcibly trained him in the ways of assassination. For your safety, m’lady, he is being held in the dungeons.”  
“Very well. I shall hold court with the boy first, then deal with the Faceless Man.” She said.  
Some time later…  
The blue silk clung to her body as she made her way to the throne. The grey cloak embroidered with a direwolf that draped her shoulders let everyone in Winterfell know that she was Lady Sansa Stark, Queen in the North and Guardian of the Wall.   
A hush fell over her court as she settled in her seat. The clanking of chains grew audibly louder as the prisoner and his guards approached the great hall. The doors swung open and Ser Trevyr escorted a blindfolded dirty boy in Braavosi rags to the base of her throne. Her Hand spoke.  
“Boy, you are appearing in the court of the North in the presence of our Queen and Protector, Lady Sansa Stark. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”  
The boy raised his head and said in a whisper,   
“My name is Lyann Snow. I do excellent Needle work.”   
Through the binding, he locked eyes with Sansa.  
Sansa knew.  
Arya had come home to Winterfell.


	3. Arya II

Court had gone agonizingly slowly for Arya. Even while her own sister interrogated her, Arya knew that Sansa had recognized her. To her credit, she had not let it show anywhere but her eyes. Queen of the North and Guardian of the Wall. She wondered who in the world would let her sister rule the North. But she remembered.  
Her sister had survived Joffrey and the Great War. Sansa was cleverer than she had let on when she was younger. As she was escorted back to her prison, Arya remembered how different her sister had looked. Her red hair had been left loosely around her shoulders like the wild queen she was. Her face was kind, but bore the shadow of the abuse she had received at the hands of others. And her dress- her dress!- was the blue of the House that had fallen during the War. With Robb's death, her sister was the heir to Winterfell and rightful Queen of Wolves.  
As she was once again locked in her cell, Arya wondered how long it would be before her sister would claim her again. Hours passed before a sharp rap on the door awakened her from a doze.  
“The Queen wants to speak with you.” A gruff voice called out.  
Arya scrambled to her feet and tried her best to look like an innocent Braavosi boy.  
The door swung open and a large man draped with a grey cloak grabbed her by the arm.  
“You’d best not try anything, boy.” He hissed. “The North remembers.”  
He shoved her down the hallway and up through the castle until she was faced with the set of doors that used to belong to her parents’ private chambers. Swallowing back a sudden urge to cry, she hesitantly pushed open the door. Sansa sat with her back to the entrance, a handmaiden brushing the long auburn hair that Arya so faintly remembered. She turned.   
“Boy.” She frowned. “I wish to speak with you alone.” The man began to protest.  
“No, Ser Brydon. We must talk in private.” Grumbling, the man left and the maid scurried after him, knowing she was unwanted. Moments after they were finally alone, the Tully blue eyes filled with tears.  
“Oh, Arya.”  
“Sansa.”  
The two sisters embraced; one crying, and one smiling just the tiniest bit.


	4. Arya III

Even after Arya, yelled, fought, and cursed, Sansa had gotten her to wear a dress. After all, she was the sister of the Queen. Sansa had insisted that she braid Arya’s hair for a dinner, instead of her handmaiden. Arya wasn’t very happy with that revelation either, but she sat quietly while her sister’s nimble fingers detangled the wild Stark hair.  
“We should cut it all off.” She grumbled after a particularly painful knot was finally undone.  
“Nonsense,” her sister sniffed, “You have beautiful hair, Arya. You just didn’t have time to take care of it over there.”  
To Arya’s great relief, Sansa had not brought up the fact that she was technically a fugitive. She’d even gotten Needle back, much to Ser Trevyr’s delight. For a southron knight, he was very well accepted in the North for some reason. Arya suspected that his good looks played a part. She also saw the way that her sister glanced at him when she thought no-one was watching. It reminded her of the way her lord father used to look at her mother.  
“There.” Sansa said triumphantly, jolting Arya from her thoughts. “I finally conquered your wolf mane.”  
“Seven hells.” Arya replied, “I thought you would never finish.”  
“Your Grace?” Ser Trevyr appeared in the doorway. “The feast is due to start soon.” He stopped and gaped at Arya. “Lady Stark… You resemble a lady tonight!”  
“She has always been a lady,” Sansa chided him. “I just…encouraged her a little this evening, that’s all.”  
Arya scowled.  
“By encouraged, she means that she told me that she would have Needle melted down into ten thousand hairpins if I didn’t put on the damned gown.”  
Ser Trevyr howled with laughter. “Your sister knows what will make you act like a proper lady, then.”  
“All too well.” Arya groaned.


	5. Sansa II

All eyes were on Sansa as she gracefully took her seat at the head of the banquet table. Lords and ladies from all over Westeros had gathered to welcome another wolf to the Stark pack. She was used to the constant stream of admirers now, but poor Arya was blushing and stumbling over her manners as subject after subject sought her affection. Feeling sorry for her, the Queen took a spoon to her glass to grasp everyone’s attention.  
“Welcome, cherished guests.” She beamed. “I am so glad to host this feast this evening in honor of the return of my sister, Lady Arya Stark, who would like to say a few words.” The adoring crowd clapped, remembering the dark period in which Winterfell lay in ruins and all hope seemed to be lost.  
Arya rose, albeit shakily.  
“Um, I would like to thank you all for coming and, uh, please enjoy the feast. Thank you.”  
Her face reddened as she sat again.  
“Seven hells. That was horrible.” She whispered to Sansa, who had the grace to stifle her laughter.  
“No, you did well. Short and to the point is best at these gatherings. All anyone wants to do here is eat lemon cakes and drink plum wine.” Arya rolled her eyes.  
“If I didn’t know better, sweet sister, I’d say that’s what you want to do.”

Sansa opened her mouth to reply, but before she could draw a breath, the doors at the back of the hall burst open. A young boy with dark hair stood before them, flanked by two direwolves.  
The Queensguard jumped into action with a vengeance.  
The boy was yanked by the arms to the base of Sansa’s table, but the direwolves followed, snapping at the guards’ heels. The boy looked into her eyes and grinned.  
“Hello, sisters.”


	6. Arya IV

“Who are you?” Arya asked coldly. “Brandon Stark is north of the Wall, and my other brother Rickon is dead.”  
He waggled his finger at her.  
“Not so, sweet Arya. Surely you recognize Shaggydog?”  
She would have had his head then and there, but something told her to look into the scruffiest wolf’s eyes.  
They were the bright green that she so faintly remembered.  
“Don’t believe me?” he smiled as she stared, gape mouthed in shock. “I brought you a present.” He gestured to the other animal.  
It couldn’t be.  
No.  
“Nymeria?” Arya said hesitantly, like a child. As if in response, she howled, sending a shiver down her spine.  
“I found her near the Dreadfort. She was cold and hungry, but she still had the ferocity that so reminded me of you. She almost bit me, actually.”   
In spite of herself, Arya snickered.   
“Enough!” Sansa slammed her hands on the table, shocking her sister into silence. “Prove to me that you are Rickon Eddard Stark or I swear by the old and new gods that you will swing from the weirwoods.”  
The boy’s smirk had disappeared entirely, but he rolled up his tattered shirt sleeve and showed Sansa his forearm.   
“Then I believe you will remember when I received this scar.” He said shortly, with a cutting glance at Arya, who flushed a deep shade of plum.  
Of course Sansa remembered. Arya had decided that she wanted to explore the woods surrounding Winterfell with her youngest brother. Sansa had disapproved, but tagged along to make sure that no mischief occurred. It had barely been half an hour when Arya scrambled up a tree and pretended to be a dragon. Rickon had been too little to understand that he was too small to hold on to the thick branches. Sansa remembered the sickening thump with a shudder. Thankfully, he’d been alright, but Maester Luwin had to reset his bone, which had popped through the skin. Mother had been furious.  
Sansa swallowed the anger in her voice and said simply,  
“Valued guests, it seems that we have been blessed with the return of my youngest brother. Please welcome Rickon Stark.”


	7. Arya V

After the last guest had departed the next morning, Arya was alone in the godswood, accompanied only by Nymeria. She stroked the direwolf’s fur absentmindedly.  
“Did you recognize Rickon?” she murmured to her beloved pet. “I didn’t.”  
As if in response, the animal let out a solitary, haunting howl. Somewhere from inside the castle, Shaggydog responded, and then all was quiet.  
“She did.”  
Arya whirled around, startled by the voice.  
The youngest Stark found himself with his sister’s sword at his throat.  
“Sorry.” Arya muttered begrudgingly, sheathing the blade. “You frightened me.”  
“It’s alright. You didn’t mean to.” He answered quietly, sitting down on the ground beside her. They sat in silence for a few moments, taking in the view. “So, uh, how’s Sansa?”   
Arya frowned.  
“Good, I suppose. She heard from Bran a few days after I returned. He’s doing well beyond the Wall.”  
“That’s nice to know. Any word from Jon?” Rickon asked.   
“No, not while I’ve been here. She got a letter from him just after she was crowned. He’s away in Casterly Rock doing business with Tyrion Lannister”  
“D’you miss him?”  
The question caught her off guard.  
“Who?”  
“Father.” Came the reply, soft and hesitantly, like a child.  
“Yes,” she breathed, “Very much so.”  
Rickon picked at the seam of his tunic awkwardly.  
“I don’t remember him well.” he sighed, “I was so little.”  
“You know what he looked like from his statue in the crypts, right?” she pointed out. After her brother nodded she continued, “Well, he was even more handsome than that, and he was a just and fair ruler. In fact, he was the most honorable man I have ever known.”  
Before Rickon could reply, the heavy footfalls of Ser Trevyr approached, crushing the red leaves beneath them. He paused, trying to catch his breath.  
“Lady Stark-and Lord Stark I suppose, - your sister is holding a trial for the Man who accompanied you here. Do you want to attend?” Arya rose.  
“Yes.” She answered. “Let me change into something more suitable for court, and I will see that justice is served.”  
Some time later…  
Arya sprinted to the Great Hall, trying to catch some of the trial. As she had expected, the side doors were closed, and two Queensguard stood in front.   
“Madam,” a tall, sandy-haired one said, “I’m afraid that court has already started. You may not enter at this time.”  
She drew herself up straight.  
“I am Arya Stark, of this ancestral house. I will enter this room.” With those words, she shoved them aside and strode into court.  
Her sister perched upon her throne, looking as regal as always. Her Tully blue eyes were focused on the man at the base of the great seat.   
“Now tell me again,” Sansa said coolly, “How did you come across Lady Stark?”  
“You see, your Grace, she approached me in Braavos, asking about a voyage to the North. I told her that I was heading your way, but I had to be careful because of our shared… occupation. We were simply heading to the Wall when your men found us.”  
“I see.” Sansa spoke, dangerously calm, “You had no idea that she was of House Stark, and had no intention of harming her?”  
“No, your Grace. I was a traveling companion. That is all.”   
“Then why, may I ask, was she found in a sleep like death?”   
The prisoner’s face grew pale.  
“She, um, stumbled on a root and hit her head on a, uh, rock.”  
“Forgive me if I don't believe you.” Sansa said coldly.   
And for the first time, Arya felt truly in awe of what her sister had become.


	8. Arya VI

After court had adjourned, Arya headed back towards her chambers with Rickon.  
“D’you think that she was a little… harsh on him?” she whispered. He shrugged.  
“Sansa’s the queen. It’s her decision.”   
“I know, but I feel sorry for him.” He looked at her as if she’d told him that needlework was her favorite pastime.  
“Arya, listen to me. That man is a criminal who has most likely killed tens, if not hundreds of people.” He paused. “If it’s any consolation, his death will be swift and clean. He will not suffer.”  
Angry now, she whirled on him.  
“Rickon, that man is just like me. The only reason I am not condemned is because I am a Stark. Where is the justice in that?”  
With those words, she stomped away, leaving her brother in the dust.  
Arya marched up the stairwell leading to her sister’s chambers, gathering courage for what she was about to say. She was only feet from the door when she felt a hand on her shoulder. It spun her around.  
Rickon had Shaggydog at his heels, ready to do his bidding.   
He scolded her.  
“Don’t beg for him, Arya. It’s not your call.”  
“Forgive me, but I seem to remember that you told me you spent the War holed up on Skagos? I have to do what I can for my brother.”   
“I am your brother!” the boy hissed.   
She lunged for him.  
He pinned her to the floor, only for Arya to flip over and suddenly be on top. They struggled to their feet and began to exchange blows. In the melee, Rickon fell against Sansa’s door, sending them both tumbling into her chambers.  
They both gained their bearings enough to realize that they’d interrupted a very intimate moment.


	9. Sansa III

Sansa jerked away from Ser Trevyr and his luscious lips.  
“What in the seven hells are you doing?” she shrieked at her younger siblings. Rickon just stared, while Arya howled with laughter on the floor. The normally composed queen's face was as red as her hair, while the poor knight was as white as Ghost.  
"I'm- we're- uh," Rickon stammered,  
"Just now leaving." Arya choked out.  
Sansa watched as her siblings closed -and locked-the chamber door, allowing the two lovers to be alone once again.  
"San- your Grace-, I have to go."  
She took him by the arm as he stood to depart.  
"No, Trevyr. This doesn't change anything." He looked at her sadly.  
"A Queensguard is sworn to celibacy, your Grace. If we were to continue, I would have to be executed. I apologize." Angered now, she stood.  
"You do realize that I initiated my Queensguard?"  
"Well, yes-"  
"Listen to me, Trevyr. I will remove you from your sworn duty as Lord Commander and grant you a lordship. You will not be punished, for I originated our relationship."  
"Your Grace, that is against your own law!" he protested.  
"Perhaps, but I will explain to my advisors why I foolishly adopted that rule and will gladly replace any knight who wishes to take a wife or a lordship if he so chooses."  
He paused.  
"Are you willing to take that chance, my Lady?"  
She looked into his eyes, filled with admiration and love.  
"Most certainly."  
Later that day…

Ser Trevyr paced back and forth outside of the council door. Sansa had gone inside an hour ago, and he had heard no news, good or bad. He wondered if he would be put to death, if Sansa would swing the sword, just like her lord father had done many years prior. He slumped against the wall; certain all he loved was lost. His position as Lord Commander, his lover, his allies; all gone. Suddenly, the door began to creak. Sansa exited the room, thanking her council profusely.  
"Well?" he questioned, heart hammering.  
She gave him a smile bursting with love, tears brimming in her beautiful blue eyes.  
"I love you, Lord Shield."


	10. Sansa IV

They were wed under the weirwood because neither half of the couple felt comfortable being married in a sept. Sansa felt that the place reminded her of her time in King's Landing, and Trevyr of the vows he broke. All Arya knew going into the day was that she was woken just before sunrise and instructed to wear a dress. Rickon was told ahead of time, because he still did not like weddings.

"You and Arya will be our only guests." Sansa explained. He shook his head.

"I am sorry, Sansa, but I cannot go. Ever since Mother and Robb's murder, marriages are nothing but a source of fear for me. I will stay in the crypts until it is done. The gods watched over me there. I wish you both the best."

She accepted his refusal with grace, as Arya too had shared his fear. But it was just the three of them gathered as the sun gently shone into the godswood.

Sansa's hair had been quickly braided into a simple plait and adorned with a circlet of silver. The bride was also clothed in a silk gown the color of freshly fallen snow. This was no ornate southron garment, but rather trimmed with lace made by northern women. Trevyr had put on his Queensguard finest, as he had no other clothing for the occasion. Arya was attired in a gown of grey, as she pointed out that she was representing the bride's family and the North. It was an uneventful wedding, and that was all any of the Starks could have asked for.  
After the happy couple had been wed, Arya remembered a very important job to do.  
"So, which one of you will let the North and the rest of Westeros know?"  
Sansa looked at her husband with a smile.  
"They will find out soon enough."


	11. Arya VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This chapter (and the rest of the fic) has a spoiler referring to Jon's parentage.

Several moons passed before Winterfell received a letter informing them of Jon’s impending arrival and return from Casterly Rock. All of the castle flew into a frenzy preparing for the young prince’s homecoming, even though he had secretly admitted to Sansa that he did not much care for the frivolities and triviality of such occasions. Standing in the courtyard, waiting to greet the man raised as her bastard brother, Arya was reminded of when her family, alive and whole, stood to receive the Baratheons so many years ago.   
Arya glanced at her sister, curious to see if she was harboring the same thoughts. Instead, although she certainly looked regal in her direwolf cloak, Sansa looked positively ill. Beneath the mantle, she was grasping Trevyr’s hand. As the sound of horses grew louder, the two sisters shared a look, wondering if they could even recognize their guest. Arya’s heart hammered in her chest as she saw the stallion breach the walls of Winterfell, heeled by the ghostly direwolf. She searched the rider’s face for any sign of the Jon she remembered and found his eyes in the effort. She gave him a tentative smile, but he nodded gravely in return. The procession stopped in front of Sansa and with skill and grace, Jon dismounted and knelt.  
“Your Grace.”  
“Lord Targaryen.”  
“Jon!” Arya wanted to scream. “His name is Jon.”  
As he kissed her hand, Jon locked eyes with Arya.  
“Lady Stark.”  
“Stop.” She thought. “My name is Arya; you know that. We were raised as brother and sister, yet you treat me like a stranger.”  
Instead, she curtsied like a good lady should.  
“Come,” Sansa said, to break the silence. “There is a feast prepared.”  
While the commonfolk and lesser nobles below conversed, the high table’s conversation was fraught with awkwardness. Arya picked at her food, taking instead long draws from her goblet of Dornish red. Across the room, she saw the wolves sniffing each other and sharing a rather large hunk of ox meat.  
“Oh, why couldn’t we be like that?” she murmured softly.  
Unfortunately, Jon heard.  
“Be like what?” he questioned. The blood rushed to her cheeks.   
“Nothing.” She lied. “I was merely considering the benefits of producing our own wine instead of shipping it from bloody Dorne.”  
Even Sansa chuckled a bit at the lie, but then tapped her chalice to catch the hall’s attention.  
“Thank you for attending, everyone.” She smiled. “It is an honor to have Lord Targaryen back with us in Winterfell tonight. In fact, he would like to say a few words while dessert is being served.”  
“Wasn’t he the bastard of old Ned Stark?” Arya heard one servant whisper. Her companion shook her head and led her away.  
Jon cleared his throat and began.  
“Thank you all for welcoming me so warmly this evening. It is a great honor to be seated here with Lady Stark and her family feasting with all of you. Winterfell is still my home, and I am so pleased to return to such a kindly atmosphere. And lastly, Your Grace,” he turned to Sansa, “My aunt sends her well-wishes following your marriage. Thank you.”   
And as the feast ended, Arya caught a glimpse of Sansa’s plate. Both the lemon cakes and the wine were untouched.


	12. Arya VIII

Arya awoke early the next morning-albeit with a pounding ache in her skull- and headed to the godswood to pray. As she approached, she saw a dark figure kneeling in front of the weirwood. Even without seeing his face, she somehow knew it was Jon. Perhaps Jon sensed her as well, for he turned to see who the intruder was. She curtsied awkwardly.  
“Lord Targaryen.” He rolled his eyes.  
“Stop with the formalities, Arya. Call me Jon.”  
She joined him in front of the tree, kneeling into the wet earth. He gestured to her sparring attire. “Hardly appropriate to hold counsel with the gods in, don’t you think?” She smacked him on the arm in jest.  
“Bugger off. I’ve got a nice hangover at the moment.” Jon put up his hands in mock surrender.  
“Nothing I haven’t done.”  
At that moment, Ghost materialized with Nymeria at his side. Upon closer inspection, Arya realized that she carried a scroll in her mouth. She unfurled it and read aloud.  
“Arya, please come to my chambers at once. There are matters to be discussed.”  
Jon raised an eyebrow. “This early in the morning?”  
Arya shrugged. “Must be important.”  
Later, she stood in front of Sansa’s chamber door, tapping her foot rather impatiently. Finally, after what seemed like hours, she heard the familiar click of a lock being turned. The door creaked open, revealing the smiling face of one of Sansa’s dearest handmaidens.  
“Good morning Lady Stark!” she chirped, “You’re here rather early today.” Arya forced a smile.  
“Aye. Not on my own volition, of course.”  
“Well, come on in then! No need to waste important time standing around outside!” She waved Arya on, leaving her alone with her sister.  
Poor Sansa looked like she hadn’t slept in a week.  
“Seven hells.” Arya said incredulously. “You look like death warmed over.”  
Sansa rolled her eyes.  
“Save your compliments for another time, sweet sister. I need for you to meet with the Master of Whispers in my place this afternoon. I have…” she hesitated. “some business to attend to.”  
Arya couldn’t help herself.  
“More important than a meeting with your spymaster?”  
Her sister bit her lip.  
“Maester Samwell and I need to discuss the future of House Stark.”   
Arya stared at her blankly. Sansa beamed.  
“I’m to have a baby.”  
“Oh.” Arya said faintly, stupidly. “Congratulations.” How blind was she? The lemon cakes, the wine, the fatigue? She was clearly lacking in the skills of deduction. Arya suddenly realized that her sister was staring at her.  
“Are you alright?” Sansa’s forehead creased with worry. “You don’t look too well either.”  
Arya forced a smile. “I’m fine. I just forgot to take breakfast this morning, that’s all.”  
“Well, that is a rare occurrence indeed!” her sister laughed. “You may take leave to remedy that now. Remember, the counsel is in the spymaster’s quarters.”  
Arya curtsied and left.   
Halfway down the hall, she turned a corner to find Jon just about to enter his chambers.  
Her cousin greeted her with a smile.  
“It’s been some time since we’ve seen each other.” he joked, but his face sobered as he read her expression.   
“We need to discuss something.”


	13. Sansa V

The next day, Sansa was awoken by one of her handmaidens.  
“Pardon me, your Grace.” she said. “But Lord Targaryen wishes to speak with you. I tried to send him away, but he was very insistent.”  
“No, no.” Sansa yawned. “Tell him that I will be with him momentarily.”  
Jon was waiting in her solar, pacing the length of the floor.  
“How can I help you, Lord…Jon?” she asked.  
He looked at her with genuine anxiety in his eyes.  
“Have you seen Arya today?”  
“No. Why?”  
“Well,” he started, “We were supposed to spar an hour ago, but she never showed up.”  
“Is she asleep?” He shook his head.  
“I asked her handmaidens, and they said she took no breakfast and hurried off to gods know where.”  
“I can help look.” She offered. “I have no counsel this morning.”  
“Would you?” He looked relieved.  
“Of course. She’s probably off causing trouble somewhere. No need to worry.”  
“Thank you.” But as he turned to go he whispered, “Oh, and congratulations. Arya told me.”

She was walking through the courtyard when she saw the wolf. Nymeria was watching her, almost waiting. Nearly immediately, the wolf turned towards the crypts, leaving Sansa feeling like an idiot. They padded along, side by side, heading towards the musty caverns. As she reached for a lantern, Sansa realized that the candles going down were already lit, a tell-tale sign of a certain missing Stark. Nymeria trotted ahead into the dark, looking for her mistress. Down and down, Sansa went, until she was completely immersed in the murky tomb. As she drew closer to her father’s statue, she heard the muffled sound of her sister. Arya Stark was crying. Not at her father’s bones, nor her brother’s. But rather, Lyanna’s. Sansa crept closer to listen.  
“Aunt Lyanna, I’m so...frightened.” she sniffled. “I am a wolf; I know that. I should not have childish fears. I am not afraid for myself. It is Sansa I’m concerned for.”  
At once, Sansa knew she was privy to her sisters darkest secrets and fears. But what could she do but listen? Trying to leave would give away her sin. Her sister continued.  
“I was ripped from my family and lived on vengeance alone. I had no one. When I woke up in Winterfell, I thought I was dead or dreaming. Never did I imagine that I would return. The gods gave me my family back; my home too. However, my trueborn baby brother is grown and my bastard brother returns to me a dragon prince. Only Sansa remotely resembles the sister I remember. But now,” -Arya’s voice broke- “she is Queen, and married as well. Aunt Lyanna, I am afraid of losing her again. You died when Jon was born. I cannot bear losing my sister to childbed. After all our pack has survived, I cannot fathom her being broken by a babe. It would kill me.” Arya’s voice dissolved into soft whimpers.  
Sansa’s hand slipped to where her child rested inside her. Nymeria lifted her head from its spot on Arya’s lap and gazed past her mistress to make eye contact with the intruder.  
Sansa knew it was time to make her presence known.  
She stepped softly into the open. Her sister’s head whirled around at the invasion of solitude.  
“Sansa?” she whispered, eyes wide. “Did you hear all of that?”  
Sansa bowed her head in shame. “I did.”  
“You weren’t supposed to know any of what I just said.” A stray tear slid down Arya’s cheek.   
“Aye. But I am glad you said it.” Sansa came to her sister’s place in the crypt and eased her way to the floor. “I missed you greatly in King’s Landing and the Vale. I was very lonely, just as you were. When I took the crown I thought that maybe, just maybe you were still alive and would hear of it, wherever you were. No matter how much we fought as children, I wanted you to come home to Winterfell and help me rule. Not even the crown could replace my family.” She felt tears brimming behind her eyes. “Trust me, it is not my intention to die and leave you. I love you just as much as I love my child.”   
Sansa took her sister’s trembling hands and placed them on her belly.   
“Do you feel that?”   
Arya smiled weakly and nodded.  
“That’s your niece or nephew saying hello. I want him or her to be honorable like Robb, smart like Bran, strong like Rickon, and wise like Jon. But most of all, I want my little wolf to be brave like you.”  
“The sentiment is nice, but I think you actually want a child who likes lemon cakes as much as you do.” Arya grinned.


End file.
